


Shibboleth

by K_Hanna_Korossy



Category: Starsky & Hutch
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-15
Updated: 2015-09-15
Packaged: 2018-04-18 03:10:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4690052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/K_Hanna_Korossy/pseuds/K_Hanna_Korossy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Shibboleth: (noun) A way of speaking or behaving which shows that a person belongs to a particular group.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shibboleth

Written: 2004

First published in "Compadres 28" 2006

 

Ken Hutchinson tapped his hand absently on the car door armrest as his gaze swept the road on his side of the car.  His mind wasn't on what he saw, but four years on the streets had developed his street eyes and he knew anything wrong would catch his attention, which meant he could focus on that day's topic of conversation.

"You know what the best part of living alone is, Starsky?"

His partner, Dave Starsky, took a leisurely look out the window on his side of the car as he drove, his tone just shy of disinterest.  "What?"

Okay, so maybe it had been more like that month's topic of conversation.  But the newly single life was still so novel, it was hard for Hutch to let it go.  And Starsky didn't really seem to mind.  "The _quiet_.  I can play music, sing, sleep, whatever I want, and nobody cares or interrupts or starts yelling when I'm trying to think.  You know how amazing that is?"

The corner of Starsky's mouth turned up.  "Nope."

Hutch ignored the hint.  "Well, it is."  His fingers beat against his leg now.  "I should have let her go a long time ago," he mused.  And then he snapped his mouth shut and turned back to the window to avoid seeing Starsky's reaction.  He hadn't meant to let slip that Van had wanted a divorce for a while, that his pathetic belief they could work things out had been the only thing keeping them together those miserable last six months.  How pitiful was that?  But Starsky's silent attention had loosened his tongue, like it often had in the two years of their partnership, and Hutch didn't know whether to be aggravated by that or relieved.

At least his partner also had plenty of tact.  "This the first time you've been on your own?"  Starsky lightly and doubtless deliberately steered the conversation in a different direction.

"No, I left home for college and married Van after I got out.  I did have a roommate, but…"  This was getting kind of embarrassing, too, as if he hadn't been able to live on his own before.  Hutch shifted restlessly.  "The cottage is just starting to shape up, Starsk– Hey, you wanna stop in for beers and some home cooking after we get off?  I'll show you how the place is coming along."  There, that didn't sound too lonely, did it?  Just a guy inviting a friend over for a little R&R time, no wife to beg permission from this time.

Starsky flashed him a quick grin.  "Sounds good, but you sure you wanna cook?  We could pick something up on the way."

"It's no problem," Hutch said hurriedly.  There was no point admitting he missed cooking for someone; Van had never much been into preparing meals, or any other kind of housekeeping.  Nor was Hutch going to mention dinners were maybe a little too quiet those days, the bathroom too uncluttered, the bed too empty…  No, he set his jaw, he wasn't going there.  Things were much better this way and that was that, but a guy could still have a little company over if he wanted.

"Okay," Starsky agreed with his usual ease, not pushing it, also as usual.  It was one of the many things Hutch liked about his partner.

The voice on the radio, whispering in the background all along, seemed to raise its voice.  _"Zebra Three, Zebra Three, please respond to the 1500 block of Greene Street.  Possible 261 in progress."_

Starsky barely moved, but his casual attitude changed to tension from one moment to the next and Hutch straightened in his seat, reaching for the radio.  "Zebra Three, we are responding, ETA five minutes."  It was a lot of time for a rape in progress, but they were probably the closest unit.  Hutch jammed the light on the roof and turned it on, while Starsky sped up and began to weave through the morning traffic.

"That's USC," Hutch said flatly.

"Uh-huh."  Starsky took a sharp right without giving him a glance.

"Could just be some noisy college students."

"Uh-huh."  He sped up to make it through a yellow light.

"Yeah, I don't believe it, either," Hutch said resignedly, and hung on through another abrupt turn, fingers digging into the seat.  He hated the rapes, almost as much as he hated the missing-child calls.  Rage at those who hurt the innocent was one thing he shared with his partner, but while Starsky seemed to work it off by kicking a few trash cans – or the suspect – Hutch couldn't seem to do anything with his but eat it.

They actually made it to the address in four minutes, and as Starsky screeched up to the curb, Hutch was already jumping out of the car, snapping his head this way and that as he sought any sign of trouble.  There was no respondent waiting to point out the disturbance, a mark in favor of a false alarm.  Campus life flowed around them seemingly undisturbed, students walking by carrying books, a few stretched out on the grass alone or in pairs, enjoying the spring weather.  Several glanced toward the Torino with mild interest, otherwise the detectives were ignored.

Hutch turned back to the car with a frown, his mouth opening to suggest they'd been duped, when a movement in the corner of his eye caught his attention.  Hutch turned toward it.

A young man, a student from the looks of his hair and clothes, was running out from between two closely set buildings.  He jerked to a stop as he caught sight of them, then turned and ran in the opposite direction.

"Starsky," Hutch spat out, already moving.

"Go," his partner yelled simply, but it was all Hutch needed to know.  Starsky would check on what he was running from, but the kid was Hutch's.

He ran.

His gait quickly smoothed into the rhythm that had earned him a spot on the college track team, not slowed by the bump of the Colt in its holster against his chest.  Hutch ignored it, ignored the startled glances of the faces he passed, forgot everything but the fleeing figure he was chasing.  Chances were he was their suspect, an animal, a ruiner of lives.  The kind of monster Hutch had become a cop to stop.

The guy turned a corner ahead of him, disappearing behind a building, and too many seconds later, Hutch sped around the turn after him.

Straight into the path of an oncoming car.

The second of shock was enough to note the same hair and shirt he'd been chasing, now sitting behind the wheel of the Chevy.  Then, all Hutch could see was the grill bearing down on him as his limbs unfroze and he leapt out of the way.

Not fast enough.

He didn't feel the blow, only the disorientation of tumbling, flashes of black-and-white scenery, the disbelieving realization he'd actually been hit.  It seemed to stretch on indefinitely, then suddenly snap back to the color of reality as he scrambled to his feet and watched the rear of the car fade into the distance.

And then his body caught up to his mind and his left leg buckled, dropping him back to the asphalt with a nauseating surge of pain.

" _Hutch!_ "

The shout sounded distant, and Hutch was too caught up in not losing his breakfast to pay attention to it.  Not until it had almost reached him, along with a patter of running footsteps.  Someone dropped gracelessly beside him, pulling at his arm.

"Hutch!"

He half-turned, breathing heavily, and stared in confusion for a moment at the face beside him, a round blur before it cleared.  Starsky.  His partner was there.  Hutch opened his mouth to fill him in, and a groan came out.

Starsky's other arm came up around his shoulder to support him.  "What happened to you, huh?" he asked anxiously.

Hutch shook his head, voiceless, and sagged into his grasp.  His head was light, swimming with pain.

His partner unexpectedly turned away.  "Somebody see what happened?"

Hutch had no idea who he was talking to and didn't really care, squeezing his eyes shut as another jolt of agony streaked up his leg and speared him in the gut.  Starsky's arm tightened around him.

"Yeah, man, that car totally got him."  An unfamiliar voice in the distance. "He tried to jump out of the way, but I think it clipped his leg.  Dude driving didn't even slow down."

"Hutch?"  Starsky's breath was warm on his face again.  "Can you hear me?  Tell me where it hurts."

The next shooting pain wasn't quite as bad as the one before, and Hutch's scattered thoughts began to regroup.  He blinked, first at the asphalt, then sideways at Starsky, who looked as shaken as he felt.  So much for their tough street-cop image.  "I'm okay," Hutch managed, still panting.

"Yeah, and I'm the Pope.  Where'd you get hit?"

The ground-glass pain was dulling into a powerful throb, and Hutch shut his eyes again to do a self-check.  His hand moved automatically toward the worst ache.

Starsky's hand closed over his, managing to be comforting and restraining at the same time.  "Your hip?  Your hip hurts?"

Hutch nodded heavily.  The fuzzy colors around him were coalescing into recognizable objects: trees, a bench, faces, the usual crowd of gaping onlookers.  Self-conscious, he turned back to Starsky, his voice dropping.  "And my leg.  But I don't think it's broken."  He was starting to sound so calm, Hutch was impressed with himself.  "Help me up."

Starsky stared at him.  "Are you crazy?  You got hit by a car, Hutch – 150 pounds of skin and bones against a ton of metal, the metal usually wins.  Ambulance'll be here in a minute, they'll check you out."

The gawking faces were getting to him.  "I don't need an ambulance," Hutch said irritably, and pushed away from his partner.  "Help me up."

But Starsky's grip on his arm had remained, and now it felt like steel.  "No way," Starsky said flatly.  "You're stayin' here 'til the ambulance comes if I have to wrestle you down, and I don't think you're in any shape to beat me, buddy."

Hutch's nerves tightened, expression hardening. Starsky might be his partner but he wasn't his boss, and Hutch wanted up.  His leg was tender where it pressed against the warm asphalt, and he needed to stretch it out, flex it a few times, rub the ache out – and then another thought came rushing in.  "Starsky, the girl–?"

Starsky tried unsuccessfully to hide his wince.  "Don't worry about that, someone's stayin' with her."

Until the ambulance came.  Hutch shivered.  "It was him."

"We'll get him."

"He raped her."

"Hutch, it's okay – she'll be okay.  He smacked her around a little, but she'll be all right."

Were they ever?  Hutch slapped the asphalt with his open hand in frustration, glad for the distracting sting.  "I let him get away, Starsky."

"That's not true.  You didn't _let_ him do anything, Hutch, you nearly got yourself killed trying to stop him.  Let me see your hand."

He shook his head disconsolately, barely noticing as Starsky claimed and examined his hands, one at a time, gently turned his head to either side.  They'd been late getting there again, and the creep had gotten away.  If it'd been Vanessa…

"Over here!" Starsky was calling to someone, and flashing lights cast his face in alternate blue and red.  Hutch bleakly watched him, then the man in a blue uniform approaching him.  Ambulance attendant.  Hutch shook his head again.

"I'm okay – go take care of her."

"They're taking care of her, Hutch, but they need to look at you, too."

He kept shaking his head, but didn't resist as Starsky shifted to just behind him, and the ambulance attendant and another man in white knelt in front of him.  He didn't try to pay attention as Starsky talked to them, barely noticed as the man in white leaned in closer and made a surprised sound.

"Ken?"

He looked up disinterestedly at a familiar face, but the memory it was attached to seemed too distant to access.

The man broke into a grin.  "Ken Hutchinson, small world.  I was hoping we'd bump into each other again someday, although I wish the circumstances were different."  He was doing something to Hutch's arm, but Hutch stared dumbly at his face.

Starsky asked a question behind him.

"Ken and I went to med school together.  He dropped out after the first semester to become a cop – left more than a few of our professors shaking their heads in disbelief, actually – and I finished and got my medical degree.  I'm doing my residency now, just doing some ride-alongs with the new paramedics."  He was checking Hutch's pulse now, his fingers warm on Hutch's wrist.

"Jace," Hutch said suddenly.  The name had plopped out of his cloudy memory like a raindrop.

The friendly smile deepened.  "Didn't know if you remembered.  Jace Broadhurst," he said over Hutch's head, and there was a slight jiggle as Starsky nodded greeting.  "Looks like you've been busy in the meantime, Ken."

"Car clipped him on the hip," Starsky said tersely.

"Right, let's take a look.  Why don't you lie down, Ken?"

"I'm all right," Hutch insisted dully again.  "The girl–"

"Mario's with the girl.  I want you to pay attention to me now.  Lie down for me, okay?  Does it hurt anywhere besides your hip?"

He gritted his teeth as the attendant straightened his legs, feeling Starsky's fingers flex in sympathy on his shoulder and then start to ease him back.  Lying him down there in the street with all the vultures gathered around, while a few hundred feet away, the girl…

Hutch suddenly shoved aside the two many hands touching him, wriggling out of their grip.  "I _said_ I'm _fine!_ "  His voice sounded to his own ears like a pot boiling over and he noted without reaction Jace's surprised expression.  "It's getting better – go take care of her.  I just need to go home and lie down for a while."

"Hutch–"

"Ken."

He all but yanked himself away from Starsky.  "I'm conscious so I can refuse treatment, right?  Well, I'm refusing it."

"Hutch, you got hit pretty hard…"  That was Starsky, sounding doubtful and worried at the same time.

"I'm okay," Hutch said, mostly truthfully.  A few line-of-duty injuries since he'd become a cop had taught him the difference between serious injuries and merely unpleasant ones.  This was one of the latter ones; only an occasional shot of pain still arced down his leg, the rest just an unhappy ache now.  But he was in no mood to explain that to Starsky and Jace, nor sit there any longer in front of all those staring eyes, and so Hutch preempted any further arguments by taking hold of Starsky's arm and gingerly pushing up.

Starsky had no choice but to help him, and Jace reached out do the same.  Hutch's side flamed into protest for a moment, then steadied into a sharper ache than before, but a manageable one.  It took a minute, but he was soon standing on his own, breathing nearly steady again.

From Starsky's expression, he still wasn't looking so hot, but his partner didn't say a word, just kept that solid grip on his arm and the worry lurking in his eyes.  Backing his play even though Hutch knew he didn't agree, and the moment of gratitude stole a little of his anger.

Jace, however, was shaking his head.  "I'd still feel better if you rode in with us, Ken.  Being able to put weight on it's a good sign, but you might have injured something else inside – it wouldn't hurt to have a couple of X-rays taken, let us do a few tests, and you'd be out before dinner."

But Hutch was staring past him, to where the two attendants were wheeling a stretcher toward the back of the ambulance.  Dark hair tumbled off the end of it, all he could see of the victim.

Van had hair like that.

He squeezed his eyes shut, hating the uninvited thought, the not knowing anymore where she was, the fact of his inability to protect her any longer, heck, the world in general.  His eyes jerked open again as he felt himself start to sway.  "I'm going home," Hutch said quietly.

Jace and Starsky hesitated, trading a look.

"At least let me clean up those hands for you first," Jace said.

Hutch glanced disinterestedly at his palms and the scratches oozing blood.  Apparently they'd hit the asphalt the same time his side had; he hadn't even felt the discomfort before.  He shook his head, annoyed at the unimportant detail.  "They're fine."

Jace chuffed a frustrated breath.  "Well, I guess your wife can do it," he said slowly.

Hutch could feel his partner's awkward shuffle and hurried to head him off, but Starsky beat him to it.  "Right.  Thanks, Doc."

Hutch gave him a surprised glance, but Starsky's gaze was conspicuously elsewhere.  Hutch finally glanced back at Jace, and social graces unexpectedly prodded him.  "Uh, we should get together–"

"–sometime.  Right.  Well, I wouldn't mind checking you out again at the hospital in a few days, Ken.  I'm at Century City Hospital.  Don't forget." 

"We won't," Starsky answered.  "Uh, say, can you stay with him a minute while I bring the car over?"

They were talking about him like he wasn't there and Hutch didn't care.  All he wanted to do now was go home and have a long soak and forget about rapists and ex-wives and pain.

Starsky left his side, and Hutch felt oddly bereft even as he watched his partner shoulder through the still-present audience and Jace took his place.  But his leg was down to an unpleasant throb, no longer threatening to dump him to the ground or turn his stomach, and he could stand just fine without help, even lean on the leg a little.  He was just fine.

At least Jace wasn't arguing with him anymore.  Hutch could feel his former classmate's eyes on him as they stood and waited for the Torino to roar around the corner and through the parting crowd, and Jace silently moved away again as Starsky reappeared next to Hutch.  It was his partner's hands that helped him, heavily limping, to the Torino's passenger door and eased him inside.  The pain had settled into his bruised muscles and bones, and his stomach stirred uneasily again, but Hutch was more stubborn, staring fixedly out the window as Starsky climbed in next to him and the Torino began to move.  He didn't meet Jace's eyes as he watched them drive away.

Starsky called them in as off-duty, then once they were out of sight of the campus, unexpectedly pulled to the side of the road and gave Hutch a serious look.  "I really think you should go to the hospital."

There was some part of him that was grateful Starsky had supported his decision in public and waited until they were alone to do this, but a lot bigger part of him had run out of patience.  "I told you, I don't need–"

"–to go to the hospital.  Yeah, I got that.  But look, you can barely walk, you're gonna be stiffer than a day-old corpse tomorrow.  You should at least let them check–"

"I can make my own decisions, Starsky!"

They were talking over each other, voices rising, but he still caught that shift in his partner's eyes he recognized as meaning something had just clicked in Starsky's mind.  Before Hutch could wonder what, though, Starsky leaned a little closer and stared him solemnly in the eye.  "Do it for me, then, wouldya?"

Hutch's mouth opened, then shut, flabbergasted.

"Please?" Starsky added.  He looked like he meant it.

Hutch's irritation cooled.  Starsky wasn't doubting him, he was just worried, and Hutch knew what it was like to worry about a partner.  How could he refuse a request like that?  Abashed, he looked away.  "Okay."

"Okay?" Starsky repeated, seeming to want to be sure.

Hutch nodded reluctantly.  "But just X-rays and a few tests– I'm not staying there."

Van would have gloated at a capitulation like that, but Starsky's smile had only relief in it, no triumph.  "Sure."  He straightened and pulled the car back out into traffic.

Hutch felt sometimes like he'd never understand this whole partnership thing.

 

 

Jace was still out with the paramedics, so the on-duty ER doctor examined Hutch and sent him for X-rays.  Starsky hung around until Hutch gave him a pointed look, then retreated to the hallway to wait.  But even Hutch knew better than to offer to take a taxi home.

And so, four hours later, they were finally heading back to Venice, his usually voluble partner silent next to him, Hutch in an equally unsociable mood.  All the poking and prodding and movement had just exacerbated the aches and bad mood, and he couldn't find a position on the bench seat that was comfortable.

"I told you there was nothing wrong," he finally muttered through clenched teeth.

Starsky didn't look at him, just kept his eyes on the road.  "That why you could barely move when we got to the hospital?"

"It's nothing serious," Hutch said fractiously, but Starsky refused to be baited.

"You didn't even give 'em a chance to finish their tests."

"And run up my insurance rates?  No thanks.  They took their X-rays and the major screens.  They didn't need to run the full spectrum.  It was just a little bump, Starsky."

Silence.

Hutch huffed restlessly, stared out the side window for a minute.  "Hey, turn here, we need to stop at the station first."

The car didn't budge but Starsky finally looked at him, incredulous.  "Are you kidding?  The only place I'm takin' you is home."

"The report–"

"–can wait.  Dobey'll understand."

"I won't.  Starsky, we need to catch that guy."

"And we will, believe me.  Soon as you're up to it."

He turned to face his partner, hiding a wince as he did.  "I'm up to it now.  Starsky, if we wait with the report, we're gonna forget something, something important, and give the guy that much more time to disappear.  SOP is to do the report right away while it's still fresh in your mind."

"SOP doesn't include you gettin' run over," Starsky answered stolidly.  "But look, if it'll make you feel better, you can do the report from home, okay?  In bed.  You need to get some rest."

"Anyone ever tell you you're bossy?"

"Anyone ever tell you you're stubborn?" Starsky shot back.

"Besides you?"

It was meant to be teasing, like a thousand other volleys they'd launched at each other since they'd become friends. But it came out sharp, and he could see Starsky's expression tighten fractionally as he heard it, too.  Hutch knew full well he should say something, apologize maybe.

But the Chevy had shaken up more than his body, tangling his thoughts and feelings into a twisted mess, and all he could sort out of them was a curt, "Fine."  And deliberately avoiding his partner's narrowed eyes, Hutch slipped his sunglasses on and leaned his head back against the seat.  He gingerly tried to make his battered body comfortable, but finally decided it wasn't possible and turned toward the street to take his mind off the discomfort.

Starsky didn't say a word the rest of the way.  But he drove as slowly and carefully as Hutch had ever seen him.

And it made something twist inside Hutch, far deeper than his injured side.

 

 

Hutch had only been living in the Venice cottage for a month, but Starsky knew the way there as well as to his own apartment.  The blond had been lucky, really, to find a nice place like that and so soon after his split with Vanessa, and the cottage by the canal really suited him.  Well, yeah, it helped to have money.  Not that Starsky resented it; on the contrary, he'd been all for anything that helped Hutch get out from under that witch woman's claws as quickly as possible once he'd finally seen the light.  Starsky kept his opinions to himself, but privately he thought Hutch should have left her long before.  Van had sucked too much life out of her far better half as it was.  Maybe the money that had kept her there so long wasn't much of a blessing, after all.

Well, at least she wouldn't be there now, and Starsky was grateful for that.  Hutch was hurting enough without Van's snide comments and obvious disinterest to make it worse.  It would have been good for him to have some help the next few days while he healed, but Van wasn't the helpful kind, anyway.  Her idea of taking care of her husband the time he'd ended up in the hospital had been to forbid Starsky from visiting, which was probably one of the reasons he still couldn't think of her kindly, even for his partner's sake.

Not that Starsky intended to take her place.  Yeah, seeing Hutch down had scared him in all sorts of inner places he didn't think too closely about.  And they had sorta lied to Jace about someone staying with Hutch while he got back on his feet, which admittedly wasn't a bad idea.  But invading a man's space when he was dropping all kinds of hints he wanted to be alone?  Starsky wasn't sure that was help, either.  Even friendship had its boundaries.

Hutch seemed to be thinking the same thing as he struggled to climb out of the Torino without help on a leg that had stiffened up again on the way home.  Starsky stood by the open door and tried to respect the refusal of his offer to help.  _Boundaries_ , he reminded himself.  _Space_.

Hutch turned the wrong way, and the color left his face.

Starsky blew out a breath.  To heck with space and Hutch's annoyance; he wasn't going to stand there and watch his partner torture himself.  Starsky slipped around to crouch shoulder-to-shoulder with him, and pulled Hutch's right arm around his own neck, sliding his arm around his partner's waist.  Hutch had run out of air or energy to argue with him and just gave a breathy grunt as together they levered him out of the car.  They could have at least stayed at the hospital long enough to pick up the painkillers.  God only knew what Starsky had done to deserve such a headstrong partner.  He himself, of course, was always sensible.

Upright once more, Hutch dropped his arm from Starsky's shoulder and would have pulled away altogether except his partner was as stubborn as he was.  Starsky eased his grip higher, across Hutch's lower back now instead of near the bruised hip, and didn't let go despite the glare he got for it.  Tough, he wasn't budging.  When Hutch stumbled only two steps later, he didn't fight the support after that, just endured it with tight-lipped silence that squelched any success Starsky might have felt.

They finally made it to the door, to Starsky's no small relief, and at Hutch's wince as he tried to dig into his pocket, he fumbled out his own key and opened the door.  Hutch had made him a copy the week he'd bought the cottage, but the look his partner shot him before stumbling inside said he was already rethinking that decision.  Starsky heaved a silent sigh as he followed his friend inside.

At least the bathroom was right by the door, and Hutch headed for it without hesitation.  He'd shrugged free of Starsky as soon as they were inside and leaned against the furniture instead as he went, limping heavily.  Dismissing him again, Starsky knew, but he lingered uncertainly by the door, trying not to wince as he watched his partner's painful progress.

Stay or go?  Hutch certainly hadn't encouraged the former.

He didn't really understand this, and that puzzled him even more.  He was used to Hutch's moods, the way he absorbed and stored other people's pain, the still-mending broken heart from his pending divorce.  They'd been riding together only two years, and Starsky felt he could already write a book on the Care and Feeding of a Hutchinson.

And doubtless the reverse was true, too.  Hutch was the first person he'd known since he was a kid with whom he felt he could be himself.  Sometimes he bewildered his partner, made him crazy, made him laugh, but still Hutch never shut him down or patronized him.  And after a lifetime of conforming to belong, there was a freedom, a joy in being with someone like that that.  Starsky never thought he'd feel again after his dad had died, and that in itself was a debt he'd happily pay the rest of his life.

So he knew the guy well enough to see that Hutch's pride was bruised along with his heart.  And it hadn't taken long to realize everybody telling him he should go to the hospital had been the surest way to set him against the idea.  It was why Starsky had changed tactics, asking instead of insisting, invoking a concern he knew Hutch would understand.  The only part that had surprised him was how long Hutch's patience had lasted.  He'd actually expected the man to limp out of the exam room in indignation far earlier than he had.

But Hutch's near hostility since then, such a contrast from his cheerfulness that morning, had thrown Starsky.  Yeah, Hutch tended to be grouchy when he was in pain, physical or emotional, and he was in both right now.  Hutch's rhapsodies about living alone hadn't fooled Starsky for a second.  Van's departure had cut deep, and now the rape and the guy getting away were probably getting all mixed up inside that blond head, plus his leg and hip had to be hurting like the blazes.  But after a little venting, Hutch usually felt better and went all pink and apologetic in that way Starsky could only fondly grin at, and they went back to being pals.

Now… he was acting like Starsky's very touch was repulsive.  Forget hints; Hutch's message was loud and clear:  he wanted to be left alone.  And who wanted to stay where they weren't welcome?  Hutch was a grown-up and could decide for himself if he wanted company or not.  Starsky had his pride, too.

So why, despite all those very logical arguments, did he feel all the more like he should stay?

Well, when he figured that out, maybe he'd also get what was eating Hutch, and what Starsky could do to help.  They were partners; it was what they were supposed to do, right?

Starsky slowly pulled off his jacket and unsnapped his holster, making himself at home.  "You gonna take a shower?" he asked conversationally as Hutch reached the bathroom door.

"I'm gonna soak in the bathtub until I turn into a prune."

At least Hutch didn't seem to mind he was still there.  Starsky wished he didn't have to stretch that tolerance a little further, and gave his partner's back a rueful look.  "You sure that's a good idea?  Hot water's just gonna make it swell worse."

"I don't care."

Starsky almost smiled.  Petulance was a little more familiar territory.  "So you want me to dig you up a walker so you can climb outta the bathtub when you're done?" he asked pleasantly.

That made Hutch pause, just inside the bathroom door.  "Fine, I'll take a shower.  Happy?"

"My cup's running over.  I'll fix ya an ice pack for when you're done.  You want some lunch, too?"

"No, I'll be fine."  He turned to look over his shoulder.  "You don't have to stay, Starsky."

He hesitated, caught on an excuse.  "Reports, remember?"

"We can compare notes tomorrow."

Starsky spoke with forced nonchalance.  "Think I'll stick around a while, see if you got somethin' edible hiding behind all that junk you call food.  You mind?"

Hutch's mouth opened, closed.  His shoulders finally jerked in resignation.  "Help yourself."  He started to turn away, paused again.  "Starsky, I didn't mean you're not…"

Starsky raised his eyebrows, hands folded patiently behind his back.  "Yeah?"

Another hesitation, and Hutch shook his head.  "Never mind."  He limped heavily the rest of the way into the bathroom and shut the door behind him.  The water came on soon after.

He wasn't sure exactly what Hutch had wanted to say, but he got the idea.  _I didn't mean you're not welcome here._ Starsky heard that one loud and clear _._ Now _that_ was the Hutch he knew.Grinning with vast relief, Starsky went to reconnoiter his partner's kitchen.

 

 

The shower took nearly a half-hour.  From the curses and thumps that sometimes filtered out from behind the bathroom door, Starsky had an idea why.  He wasn't sure whether to sympathize or smile at the struggle that was clearly taking place in the small room, and settled for something in between.  It was only when Hutch got quiet that Starsky usually worried, and his partner was being anything but.

Still, the haggard, bathrobe-clad figure that finally appeared in the bathroom doorway tilted the balance toward sympathy.  Hutch's energy was nearly gone along with his patience, and he staggered as he left the support of the doorjamb, heading for the couch.  Starsky leapt over to help, but was waved away.

He watched closely instead as Hutch kept limping toward his goal, barely putting any weight on his bad leg.  "Feelin' better?" he asked.

"Oh, sure.  Thought I'd go out dancing tonight."  It was said through clenched teeth.

"Maybe at an old folks' home– they'd be about your speed right now."

"Ha–"  He sucked in a breath as a clumsy movement brushed his hip against the side of the couch.

Starsky flinched, but didn't move until Hutch finally made it past the last corner and sank onto the couch, deflating with a long sigh.  Well, maybe they didn't have the prescription stuff, but Starsky knew where his partner kept the Tylenol.  He handed Hutch the ice pack he’d made and went to retrieve a couple of pills from the bathroom.  As he got a glass of water from the kitchen, he heard the ice rustle and then a soft gasp, but by the time Starsky returned to the living room, Hutch was starting to relax again by slow degrees.  He accepted the pills with a weary glance at Starsky and washed them down.

"Now your hands," Starsky said firmly.

Hutch hadn't stuck around long enough for that part, either, and at least had the grace not to argue.  But he didn't watch as Starsky inspected the abraded palms for debris, then spread them with antibiotic cream and finished with a layer of gauze.  Satisfied, he sat back and gave his partner an unreturned smile before glancing at the kitchen.

"You want me to fix you some food?  I don't know what half of it is, but I think I can throw an omelet together."

"No, thanks, I'm not hungry."  Hutch shifted uncomfortably on the cushions, face still drawn with pain.

Starsky gave him a sympathetic look.  "Why don't you go t' bed, take a nap?  It'll give the pills time to kick in."

"Starsky, I'm fine, I just wanna get the reports done.  There's some paper–"

"Way ahead of ya."  He pointed to the neat stack sitting on the coffee table, a stack of white paper with two sharpened pencils next to it.

Hutch snorted and shook his head, but the corner of his mouth twitched, Starsky was sure of it.  He just knew better than to say so.

The next half-hour passed in near silence as they both wrote, Hutch laboriously with his bandaged hand, Starsky trying to calm his usual scrawl.  They paused only to ask the other a question, and once when Hutch leaned his head back and shut his eyes for a long minute.  Starsky had just started to wonder if he'd drifted off to sleep when he straightened again and went back to writing on the paper resting awkwardly on a magazine on his good leg.  Dobey wouldn't be thrilled with the handwriting, but he'd just have to live with it.

Finally, Hutch scribbled his signature at the bottom of the second sheet and, with another long sigh, pushed the pile off his lap onto the couch beside him.

"You done already?" Starsky asked, impressed.

"I didn't see much of the guy or the car and never saw the girl – there wasn't a lot to tell."

"You mention your friend, uh, Broadhurst?"

It seemed to take effort for Hutch to look at him.  "Jace?  Why?"

Starsky shrugged.  "Might wanna put him down, in case we need him as a witness."

"The hospital'll have the record."

"He seemed to remember you really well."

Hutch rubbed his eyes with one hand.  "Can we not talk about who I went to school with?  That was another life, Starsky."

"Part of who you are," Starsky softly admonished.

"Not anymore."  Hutch's voice sounded impatient, and for no better reason Starsky could see than restlessness, he began the painful process of levering himself up from the couch.

Starsky made a motion to help and was cut off again.  He sank back into his seat to watch, pained, as his partner struggled alone.

And caught his breath when the bathrobe slipped, revealing an already darkening bruise starting from mid-thigh and disappearing under the edge of the robe.  The hip was probably a lot worse.

"Hutch," he breathed in dismay.  No wonder the man was so cranky; he had to be in a lot more pain than he was even letting on.

Hutch caught his gaze and, flushing, yanked the robe over his leg again.  "Reports are done, Starsky, why don't you take off?"  He finally made it to his feet with an awkward pivot that put all the weight on his good side, followed by a half-slide off the couch, but the flare of pain was vivid in his eyes, and his drying hair curled with sweat at the edges.

"You tryin' to get rid of me?" Starsky asked, not quite joking.

"Don't you have somewhere else to be this afternoon?"

It was a fair question.  They had their own lives, and Starsky didn't want to overstep his bounds, push the man away when he needed a friend.  But he really did seem like he could use a friend just then, especially after having just lost his wife.  Starsky wasn't sure what he could do, had no idea where to even begin to help with this, but one thing he was fairly certain of.

His voice softened.  "I think you're where I belong right now, Hutch."

"Maybe I just want to be alone for a while, have you thought of that?"

A little cooperation, however, sure wouldn't have hurt.  Starsky frowned up at the man, still baffled by his behavior.  "Hutch, what's goin' on?  Since when are we not talking?" he asked seriously.

Hutch made an impatient gesture.  "I bruised my leg a little.  What's there to talk about?"

"That's not a little and you know it."

"I don't know why you're making such a big deal out of this, Starsky.  What do you want from me?"

This was it.  This was where he was supposed to shake his head and say, "Never mind," and respect those boundaries his partner was barricading himself behind.

There was just one problem.  Boundaries had never been designed with partnerships in mind.  How was he supposed to walk away from this person he'd come to care about and rely upon and know well enough to see he needed Starsky there, whether he knew and wanted it or not?  Hadn't Hutch learned from his marriage that–

And another piece snapped into place.  No, Hutch probably hadn't learned anything from marriage to Vanessa, except to keep it to himself if he was hurting, and hide all the weaknesses deep.  Starsky had more than once seen Hutch's ex strike out at him where she knew her husband was most vulnerable.  Hutch probably didn't even realize what he was doing, but you learned lessons like that fast and deep.  He'd just never had cause to apply them to Starsky before.

Starsky still didn't know what he was doing, had no more experience than Hutch with a relationship like this, but as he jutted out his jaw and set his stance, there were two things he was certain of now.

He wasn't going to be another Vanessa Hutchinson.  And he wasn't leaving.

That didn't mean avoiding brittle subjects, however.  They couldn't if they were going to have a partnership worth something.  And so Starsky braced himself, and broke a cardinal rule of partnership.

"What do I want from you?  How 'bout what's really bothering you?"

Hutch frowned, caught off guard.  "What?"

They weren't supposed to lay it out like this, rub each other's face in it, but he'd had his fill that day of seeing his partner stumbling around alone and Starsky was through being subtle.  "Something's wrong, off, whatever, or you wouldn't be actin' this way.  It's Van, isn't it?"

Hutch paled.

"Vanessa's gone and you wanna prove you're doin' okay without her.  Fine, I respect that.  But you nearly got killed today, partner, and on top of that you're acting like I was the one drivin' that car, so get this through your head – I ain't her.  You didn't break up with me, Hutch, and I got a right–"

"I don't believe this."

Hutch's disbelief cemented his own certainty.  " _I got a right_ to be here.  A few months ago you would've known that."

"Where do you get off telling me what I know, huh?  Where do you get off–"

Starsky was getting softer as Hutch got louder, but he still had no trouble cutting in.  "Where do you get off thinking that I can just say good-bye and walk out that door when I know you need help?"

"Starsky, I–"  Hutch's face twisted, voice falling.  "What do you want from me?" he pleaded.

That question again.  It was proof in itself there was something wrong.  Since when did concern for your partner have a price tag?  "Nothing," Starsky said earnestly.  "Not a thing, Hutch, just the truth."

There was a long moment in which he held his breath while Hutch fought himself, and his past.

And then finally lifted his chin, seemingly oblivious to his putting weight on his bad leg now, seeing nothing but Starsky.

"All right."  Hutch nodded fiercely.  "All right, you want the truth?  Here's the truth:  someone I trusted with everything I had, someone I promised to love and who promised to love me 'til death do us part, just walked out on me.  But you know, she's not the only one.  Mike went off to Korea and never came back.  Jack, my best friend in high school?  I tried calling him last week and his number's disconnected.  Pete, the guy I grew up next door to, blew into town a few years back, borrowed a thousand dollars from me, and I haven't seen him since.  But at least I got off easy with him, right?  Van took the house, the car, my grandmother's wedding ring.  Everybody I've trusted just wanted something, and they only stuck around long enough to get it, then they were gone.  How's that for truth?"

_What do you want from me?_ Starsky got it now.

And it stung.

"You think I'm only here 'cause I want something from you?" he asked incredulously.

Hutch barked a laugh.  "Don't tell me you enjoying babysitting duty."

"Is that what this is to you?  Some kinda duty I'm putting up with so I can get something back?"

"Starsky–"

His voice rose.  "No, I wanna get this straight.  You're telling me if it were the other way around, and I was the one who'd lost a fight with a car today, you'd only hang around because there was something in it for you?  And, what, when you got whatever it was, then, _sayonara_ , you're gone?"

Hutch's face wrenched.  "Starsky, I'm–"

But Starsky was on an angry, wounded roll, hands flying as he spit out, "You wanna know why I'm here, Hutch?  I'll tell you why I'm here.  I'm here because some stupid hick recruit back at the Academy knocked it into my head that you don't have t'go it alone, that there are people who care about you and'll be there for you if you let 'em.  People who don't want anything from you besides knowing you're okay.  You were the one who taught me that, who was there for me every time.  Is that only supposed to go one way?  'Cause if so, you'd better tell me now before I waste any more time on someone I thought was a partner, not a _parent_."

Hutch's expression was pure misery, the anger completely gone.  He lifted a hand toward Starsky, then let it drop as if knowing it wouldn't be well received.  "I'm sorry," he said hoarsely.

Starsky's conscience tweaked.  The last thing he'd wanted was to make the man feel worse, but Hutch's words had hurt.  Not as much as his raw expression now, though, and Starsky's own resentment melted.  "Me, too.  I don't like talkin' to you this way, but…  I'm not Vanessa, Hutch.  I'm not goin' anywhere.  If you don't know that by now…"

"It's not that.  It's just…"  Hutch shrugged helplessly.

Starsky shifted a step closer.  "She hurt you.  I know.  An' I'm real sorry, buddy.  But not everyone's like the Ice Queen.  You're just not thinkin' straight right now or you'd know that."  He should have, too.  It hadn't even occurred to him that Hutch hadn't experienced genuinely selfless concern in so long he didn't recognize it any more, or know what to do with it.  And the damage didn't even sound like it was all from Van.

Well, Starsky wasn't anybody's ideal of a friend, either.  He'd lost a lot of people when he was a kid and had grown tired of the futility of it.  He hadn't even tried to keep in touch with the guys he'd been so close to in 'Nam.  His partnership with Hutch had been the first stability he'd known in a long time, grounding him, giving him new faith.  So maybe it wasn't complete selflessness that was motivating Starsky now to be there for his partner, but he did want this to work for both their sakes.  They needed each other.

And he was pretty sure Hutch, for all his confusion and rebuffs, felt the same way.

Starsky made his choice, and finished what Hutch hadn't quite dared to.  He reached out to touch his partner's arm in tacit remorse and offering.

Hutch immediately took a step toward him, shifting his whole weight onto the wrong leg.

Starsky realized it a half-second before it flashed across Hutch's face and he gasped, already going down.  Starsky lunged to catch him before he hit the ground or, worse, the coffee table, grabbing Hutch's other arm in time to keep his head from hitting any hard surfaces.

Unfortunately, the abrupt jolt also twisted the injured hip with a jerk that would have hurt even without the injury.

Hutch cried out and tried to curl into himself, which only pulled harder on abused muscles.  The cry turned into a long, inarticulate moan.

Starsky didn't pause to think, just heaved him up onto the couch, then quickly slid him down to lie on his uninjured side.  "Easy, Hutch," he murmured, gently straightening the long legs that wanted to pull into a ball.  He could feel the heat and swelling of the bad leg even through the fabric of the robe.  Yanking it around like that had probably been like pouring sea water onto already raw nerves.

"It'll be better in a minute."  The bag he'd filled with ice before had been discarded near the couch during report writing and was half water now, but better than nothing.  Starsky scooped it up.  "This'll only hurt a second," he promised, then eased it onto the curve of Hutch's hip and the upper end of his thigh.

Hutch arched away with a hiss, but Starsky held him in place, bending to fill his ear with distraction until the cold numbed the worst pain and the lean body began to relax by degrees.  It was suddenly so simple:  his partner was in pain and Starsky had to do whatever he could to ease it, just like at the campus earlier that day.  It was when both of them started thinking that it got all complicated and awkward.

"There.  That's not so bad, huh?" he asked quietly.

"S-speak for yourself."  Hutch's throat sounded like it'd been scoured.  "S-Starsk–"

"I'm right here.  I'm not goin' anywhere."  The irony of his words wasn't lost on him.  "You cold?"

A shiver that winced Hutch's eyes shut was answer enough.  Starsky yanked the afghan off the back of the couch and tucked it around his partner, then lifted the blond head enough to ease a pillow under it.

"Better?"

He got a muttered curse in return, but Hutch's rough breathing was starting to deepen into normal rhythm, his body unwinding from its rigor of suffering, which just underlined how much agony he'd been in a minute before.  Starsky retrieved an earlier brief inspiration, considered it, and decided.  "Just lay still, Hutch.  I'm gonna call somebody."

Cold fingers grabbed his arm.  "Not h-hospital."

"Not the hospital," he agreed.  Cops spent a lot of time in hospitals and were leerier of them than most, but he could imagine it was worse for someone whose life had already been feeling pretty out of control lately.  That issue could wait, though.  Starsky wrapped Hutch's hand in his own, while with his free hand he reached for one of the phone books he'd seen piled on the floor beside the couch.

Maybe it was time for another old friend of Hutch's to be there for him.

It didn't take long to track down Broadhurst.  He'd already finished his shift at the hospital, but they gave Starsky his home number.  There were definitely some benefits to being a cop.  Starsky prayed the young doctor would be home as he tried there.

_"'Lo?"_

The man sounded sleepy but already alert; cops and doctors learned quickly to wake up on a dime.  Still, Starsky felt bad bothering him, until he glanced again at his partner curled beside him.  "Dr. Broadhurst?"

_"Yes?"_

"This is Detective Starsky.  I don't know if you remember me, but–"

_"Sure, Ken's partner."_

The guy was quick, another point in his favor.  "That's right.  Look, I don't know how you feel about house calls, but we're havin' some problems here."

Broadhurst suddenly seemed closer to the phone, his voice tensing.  _"What's wrong?"_

"He's been sore but doin' okay, then he turned wrong or something, put weight on the hip – he almost collapsed.  The pain's just starting to ease off now."  Hutch was actually mostly relaxed again, between the cold and the immobility, dozing with his eyes half-open, but his misery of minutes before wasn't something Starsky wanted to risk repeating.

A short pause.  _"Well, I saw the X-rays before I left and everything looked fine, but the bone might be bruised, or it might just be all the swelling putting pressure on the nerves.  Just make sure he stays off his leg for a while and give him some painkillers to let him rest.  What did Travis prescribe?"_

Starsky figured that was the doctor they'd seen, and answered dryly, "Hutch didn't hang around long enough to get anything."

_"You're kidding.  Even I don't remember him being_ that _stubborn."_

Starsky patted the stiff fingers.  "He's havin' a rough week."

_"What've you got on hand?"_

"Tylenol."

_"That's it?  I'll bring something stronger with me.  I'd like to take another look at him, anyway.  Maybe between the three of us we can get him settled down."_

Three?  Oh.  Starsky cleared his throat.  "Uh, Doc, Hutch and Vanessa split a few weeks ago.  It's just me here."  Hutch's hand flexed in his grasp.  Maybe his partner had been listening more than Starsky had thought.  He rubbed his thumb over the back of the clammy hand in silent apology.

_"Oh.  I'm sorry.  I didn't know."_   Broadhurst's turn to feel awkward.  _"But, uh, you can stay there with him until I get there?"_

"Yeah."  Funny how that seemed a given now.

_"Okay.  I'll be there soon.  Where are you?"_

Starsky gave him directions, thanking the man when Broadhurst promised again to hurry over, then hung up.

"It's better now," Hutch said drowsily beside him.

"Yeah, as long as you keep doing your imitation of a statue," Starsky answered.  "I want him to check you out.  You didn't exactly let him get close this mornin'.  And he said he'd bring you something stronger for the pain so you could sleep."

Hutch's voice firmed.  "I don't need anything stronger."

"What if you turn over while you're sleeping and land on those bruises, huh?  Grey isn't your color, Hutch."  Despite his partner's easing discomfort, Starsky stayed where he was, brushing some of the hair that had dried to his skin off Hutch's forehead, easing the frown lines at the same time.  Sometimes they seemed a permanent feature of the otherwise young face.

A long, quiet minute passed, Hutch blinking slowly, occasionally closing his eyes as a lingering shiver of pain passed through him, Starsky finger-combing the fine blond hair with his free hand to make it a little more presentable, hoping it wasn't too personal a gesture.  From the way Hutch's blinks were lengthening, he didn't seem to mind.

"If it'd been the other way 'round, I wouldn't've walked out on ya," Hutch murmured unexpectedly.

Starsky didn't stop moving, but some lingering awkwardness at their intimacy faded.  "I know that."

"I didn't really want t'be alone."

"Yeah, I kinda figured that out, too."

"My family was always there for me.  My grandfather…"  Hutch trailed off, his eyes on nothing in particular that Starsky could see.

He didn't often talk about his grandfather, but Starsky knew the old farmer had died sometime before Hutch had come out west, and that his grandson had loved him deeply.  Like how he felt about his pop, Starsky figured, and never pushed, just encouraged.  "Yeah?"

Hutch turned to look at him, mouth twisting into a heartbreaking smile.  "Van was supposed t'be family."

Starsky slowly shook his head.  "I don't think she was capable of that, Hutch.  Deep down, all that mattered to Vanessa was Vanessa.  She was never blood."

The pale eyes squinted at him.  "So what does that make us?" Hutch asked, cautiously curious.

Starsky caught on that one.  Good question.  But the answer was there without his even having to look for it, and he had an idea Hutch knew it, too, just needed a little bolstering right then.  "Don't you think we've shared enough blood by now, partner?" he asked softly, and lifted Hutch's hand to his partner's eye level, curling his fingers away to reveal the bandaged palm.

Hutch stared at it a moment, then unexpectedly snorted a laugh.  "Figures."

Starsky quirked a smile even without getting the joke, just happy to see a few of those furrows on Hutch's forehead ease.  "What?"

"That I'd get it backwards.  How many people d'you know who're stuck with their friends, but get to choose their family?"

Starsky's discomfort died a final, unlamented death as his smile deepened.  "When'd we ever do anything the normal way?" he asked lightly.

"Yeah."

It wasn't really funny, but it was… them.  Starsky patted a thin cheek affectionately before going back to rubbing the chill out of his hands.

Thank God he'd stuck around.  Hutch would have gone through all this alone, and neither of them really wanted that.  Two years might not have been enough to wear all the embarrassment away, but it had been plenty to endear his partner to him and want to be there for him, even if that didn't necessarily come naturally to either of them.

Maybe it would after this, or at least more easily.  It was a weird thought.

It was a few minutes more before Starsky heard the sound of a car crunching on the gravel driveway, and he leaned down to say a few words to Hutch before carefully rising from the couch and going to the window.  It was Broadhurst, the young doctor getting out of a car that looked even older than Hutch's newly acquired antique Ford.  A black bag the likes of which Starsky didn't even realize doctors still carried, swung in his hand as he hurried up the walk.

He moved to the door and had it open before Broadhurst could reach it.  "Thanks for comin', Doc," Starsky greeted him before he had a chance to say anything.

Broadhurst gave him a friendly smile.  "I think if I'm making house calls, we can skip the formalities.  It's Jace."

Starsky nodded.  "Dave.  And Sleepin' Blondie's right in here."

He only needed to nod at the couch, and Jace's expression changed to a real concern that instantly warmed Starsky to the man.  Broadhurst wasted no time taking off his jacket and descending on his patient.

Hutch uttered some sleepy protests, but once he got a look at the unyielding faces around him, meekly shut up.  Good, Starsky gave a satisfied nod, he was learning.  Still, there was no point stretching the edges of Hutch's newfound trust in the world to its limits, and Starsky settled onto the coffee table just in his line of sight, carefully staying out of the doctor's way.

Broadhurst started with the essentials – pulse, blood pressure, temperature – then made his way down.  Even under his careful touch, Hutch's eyes watered as his hip and leg were prodded and manipulated, mouth tightening in rigid stoicism.  Starsky finally made a face and slid forward to take his hand again, showing no reaction to Hutch's immediate painful squeeze.  Jace didn't even glance at him, just worked around him, and Starsky's respect for him went up another notch.

The exam finally over, Broadhurst moved the robe, then the ice bag and afghan back into place, and silently turned to his satchel.  Starsky watched carefully as the young doctor took out two pastel tablets and offered them to Hutch.  Starsky helped his partner ease up enough to drink them down with the water that remained from the aspirin earlier.

Which reminded him.  "You know he already took somethin' earlier."

Jace nodded.  "That's fine.  This works differently than Tylenol, and it's got a sedative in it, too."  At Hutch's faint sound of protest, he turned sternly toward the couch.  "The best thing you can do now is sleep, Ken.  That's a heckuva bruise you've got there, probably goes all the way down to the bone, and rest and frequent icings are the only things that'll help.  We can't really do compression on that area or elevate it more than it is.  I don't think there's any danger of you lying on that side, anyway.  So besides going to the bathroom, for the next forty-eight hours I want you lying just like this and icing the area for twenty to thirty minutes at a time.  Got it?"

Hutch was already looking a little glassy so Starsky spoke up.  "Yeah.  How 'bout the painkillers?"

"I'll leave some.  He'll probably need them every four to six hours for the next few days – every movement's going to be painful for a while.  After that, he can take them as needed."

"How long before he can go back on duty?" Starsky saw Hutch's closing eyes flutter at that.  He knew that worry would be on his partner's mind, too.

Jace chewed his lip.  "A week?  That's an estimate.  We'll have to see how fast he improves and how deep the bruising went.  He won't be a hundred percent for two to three weeks after that, but at least he'll be able to get around."

Starsky stifled a sigh.  Desk duty.  Well, he'd take it in exchange for an intact partner any day.  He glanced at Hutch, the corner of his mouth tugging into a smile at seeing the losing battle his partner was fighting with sleep.  He kept trying to tow his eyelids back up but they were clearly getting heavier and insisting on falling shut.  "Should we move him to the bed?" Starsky asked more softly.

Jace frowned.  "Well, he'd probably be more comfortable, but moving now'll just make it worse.  Let him stay there for now.  We can worry about relocating when he wakes up again."

Hutch was finally asleep, the tension smoothing out of his face, his grip on Starsky's hand relaxing into a loose clasp.  Starsky, braced unconsciously against his partner's pain, felt himself relax in return, and he let out a long sigh.

He'd lied; he did want something from Hutch.  He wanted everything the past two years had hinted at to not only be possible, but to really happen.  He wanted Hutch to let him return the favor of always being there for him, of reaching out whenever Starsky needed someone to hold on to, of being an anchor when the waves buffeted him.  He wanted Hutch to feel as comfortable getting as he was giving, and as natural receiving as asking.  And he wanted those weary creases in Hutch's face to disappear for good.

Maybe, in time; their partnership and friendship was relatively young yet.  For now, he would just settle for the progress they'd made that day, and for Hutch being okay.

Satisfied they were finally heading in that direction, Starsky stood and gave the doctor a friendly glance.

"So, can I getcha some wheat germ or blackstrap molasses?"

 

 

He didn't know at first if the quiet buzz was a part of his dreams or the waking world.  Hutch drifted to its calming sound, some of the undulating tones known and comforting.

Faint disquiet appeared so gradually he didn't notice it at first, seeping into his pleasant fuzziness, forcing him reluctantly to start paying attention.  Lumps his bed didn't have were tickling his ribs.  The fabric beneath his nose smelled faintly of camphor and cigarette smoke, unlike his usual fresh satin pillowcases.  Worst was the dull ache he couldn't quite pinpoint as it throbbed through him in low waves.  It hadn't woken him, not nearly bad enough to be screaming for attention, but it was annoying and worrisome now.  Had Vanessa kicked him out to the couch again even though he was sick, maybe injured?

No.  Vanessa was gone, for good.

The bereftness hit him so hard, it pricked his eyes with tears.

The buzz in the background was separating into words, faint and low.  Still half-bundled in the haze of sleep, Hutch felt them sweep over and carry him along.

"That wasn't it.  Yeah, at first maybe it was because of Pop, but by the time I graduated, I knew there wasn't anything else I wanted to do."

Starsky.

"Did Ken feel the same way?"

A shift, wood creaking.  "I'm not sure he's _ever_ felt that way.  'S not like he was carrying on the Hutchinson family tradition or anything.  I don't think his dad's still too crazy about having a cop for a son, as a matter of fact.  Cost him his marriage, too, though between you and me, I don't think Vanessa was really in it for the long haul."

Hutch barely heard the bitterness, his heart wincing again at the damning honesty.

"An' it's hard for Hutch.  He feels too much for this job.  You gotta keep some distance or the stuff you see eats at you.  He's not too good at that part yet, but I think he's learning.  In the meantime, we keep each other sane."

"Then why does he do it?  He was great in med school, a lot better than me, in fact."

Jace, Hutch finally put a name to the naggingly familiar voice.  Why was he still there?

"That's real reassuring, Doc."  Hutch could hear his partner's smile.  "Yeah, I know he's smart.  I bet he coulda been anything he wanted to be.  So, why police work?  I don't know, I guess this is his way of helping people.  I don't know why he gave up on bein' a doctor, but I can tell you he's a terrific cop.  Has a real head for it, and that heart that gets him in so much trouble also makes him the kinda cop all of us should be – each case is personal for him."

The pride in Starsky's voice made him flush.  Hutch had never heard his partner be so candid before.  Well, not in words, anyway.

Silence.  "It seems to me it got a little _too_ personal today."

"Yeah."  A beat.  "When I saw him down…  We're gonna get that guy.  He's not gonna get away with it.  Hutch's been hurt enough the last few weeks."

The fierce protectiveness warmed him, making the lumps and the ache momentarily fade.  Hutch knew he shouldn't be listening to this; it was almost embarrassing.  But he couldn't seem to rouse enough to move, paralyzed by medication and the edge of sleep.

And… it felt good to hear.

"Just a minute."  A longer creak – those old wooden dining room chairs of his – and then steps padded toward him.  Hutch listened silently, motionless and with eyes still closed.

His blanket was tugged higher, brushing his chin, and a light touch skimmed his hair.  Then the steps, barefoot by the sound of them, moved back off, and the chair groaned again.

"Thought he was wakin' up."

"He should sleep a few more hours."  A clink now, ceramic maybe, then a soft throat-clearing.  "Don't take this the wrong way, Dave, but… it seems you two are awfully close.  Maybe that's normal for police partnerships, I don't know, but could it be, well, that he's staying in this job because of you?"

Hutch squeezed his eyes tighter shut.  It was an unfair question.  He had a will of his own.  There were reasons he carried that heavy badge that even Hutch didn't fully understand, and that had nothing to do with his partner.

But Starsky alone was also becoming a powerful reason to stay.  And Starsky knew it.

Starsky was silent a long moment.  "I'd be lying if I said I don't wonder sometimes if I'm part of why he stays.  Fact is, he's part of what keeps me going, too.  We've only been riding together two years and it already feels like we grew up together."

Hutch swallowed heavily.

"But that's not why he's a cop.  He still believes in the job, and if he didn't, I'd be the first to push him to quit.  And then maybe I'd turn in my badge, too.  You don't find people like that too often in life.  I figure you should to hold on to 'em when you do."

Hence Starsky sitting in his dining room hours later while Hutch supposedly slept.

"He's my partner," Starsky finished softly.

And those three words alone would have said it all, but they were just dressing for a tone so full of affection and loyalty… and love, that it was what Hutch really heard.  He felt himself color again, thoroughly discomfited, deeply touched, and in total agreement.  And his heart that had just hours before felt so empty and shriveled, threatened to burst now from overflow.  For all his lack of culture, Starsky had said succinctly what Hutch with his college education had never managed to articulate but felt just as profoundly.

No, that curly-haired clown wasn't the only reason he stayed with a job that brought so much weariness and heartbreak.  But he often reminded Hutch of all the good there still was that made the effort worthwhile.  And Starsky himself was high on that list.

Nothing else that might be said mattered after that.  The remaining forlornness had no power over him now, and consoled, Hutch burrowed into the lumpy couch and slipped back to sleep.

 

 

He opened his eyes, not sure what had dropped him so suddenly from sleep to waking.

The room – his new, still half-furnished living room – was dark, the only light a circle of soft glow falling on the easy chair to his right.  It sat empty, a book propped open on the seat.

A voice murmured behind him, the cue reminding Hutch of what had gone before, what he'd overheard.  But while it was Starsky's voice again, it had changed from the confessional tone of before to crisp business.  And there was no second voice, just long silences in between.

Then the phone chimed as it was hung up, and Hutch realized what had disturbed his sleep.

Starsky reappeared in his narrow range of vision, heading back to the chair until he glanced at Hutch, and his mouth turned up at seeing Hutch's eyes open.

"Phone woke ya?"

"Yeah."  He tried to clear his dry, fuzzy throat.

Starsky walked back out of the picture, calling to Hutch, "How ya feeling?"

How _was_ he feeling?  He stretched his upper frame carefully, wincing at a few knots in his back, then cautiously turned his hip.  Pain zinged through his nerves, but not nearly as bad as before, unpleasant instead of agonizing.  "Pretty good," he replied with surprise. 

"Until you try to put some weight on it." Starsky had already returned, a pair of pills cupped in one hand, a dripping glass of water in the other.  Hutch gingerly propped himself up and reached for the glass first, draining half of it before giving it back, accepting the pills, and washing them down with the rest of the water.  His tongue finally unglued itself from the roof of his mouth, and talking no longer sounded masochistically unappealing.

"Jace gone?"

"Yeah, left a while back.  Said he'd stop by in a few days to see how you're doin'."  Starsky moved back to sit on the coffee table, setting down the glass beside him.  "He seems like a good guy."

"One of those rare idiots who went into med school to help people instead of for the money," Hutch agreed.

"That why you left?  The company you were keeping?" Starsky asked neutrally.

Hutch rolled back onto the pillow, gaze going to the ceiling.  He'd have to paint that, too, sooner or later, but no rush.  "No.  I just figured out it wasn't for me."  He turned his head to look at Starsky again.  "By the time a patient got to us, they were already shot or stabbed or burned.  I wanted to be there on the front lines, to do something _before_ someone got hurt."  He huffed a laugh.  "Doesn't exactly work that way, does it?"

Starsky was silent a moment.  "That was Dobey calling."

"Yeah?" Hutch said without interest.

"They caught the guy who clipped ya.  Girl knew who he was, ID-ed him."

"Didn't even need us, huh?"

"Hutch, he didn't rape her."

He frowned at that, then at Starsky.  "You were there, you saw–"

"I saw she was knocked around a little.  He hadn't gotten further than that when we got there."

Starsky's voice rang with sober truth, not that his partner would lie to him.  It just seemed hard to believe.  How often in the past had they gotten there in time?  Not often.

But it happened.  And for that girl, this once was all that mattered.

Starsky gave him a small smile, patting him on the shoulder.  "How 'bout I go fix us something for dinner?  I think I saw some tomatoes and pasta hiding behind all that junk."  He started to rise.

Hutch grabbed for his hand.  "Starsky, wait."

His partner immediately sat down again, patiently attentive.

Hutch licked his lips, not sure himself what he wanted to say.  The usual reticence was already returning, but one look at his partner's receptive expression and Hutch immediately quashed it.  "I don't…  I'm not sorry I became a cop.  Sometimes I have second thoughts – who doesn't? – but I wouldn't go back and change anything.  Well, except maybe marrying Van."  His mouth twisted in a bitter smile.

Starsky sat forward, listening with his whole body.  Hutch got the feeling he would stay there just like that all night if Hutch needed him to.

Hutch grew serious again.  "I'm not sure how long I could keep doing this on my own, but that doesn't mean I don't want to do it.  Sometimes it just…"

"Yeah, me too," Starsky said quietly.

"I just wanted you to know, I want to be where I am."

Starsky's eyes narrowed at him, as if trying to figure out where that had come from.

Hutch hurried on, not wanting him to guess.  "You just make it… a lot easier, Starsk.  I should've told you that before.  People I know don't usually stick around that long."  He almost bit his tongue after that last, artless admission.

"Yeah, well, I'm not people."  Starsky was shifting almost ticklishly, but he was smiling.  Hutch realized he was touched, and no longer regretted his candor.

_No, you're my partner_ , he silently responded.  And that word was starting to mean a lot more than he'd ever guessed.  He thought he'd wanted someone passive, someone he could just get along with, no strings attached, but Starsky had known him well enough to know he needed a push that day and how far, and there was something comforting in that.  Something he'd have to think about later.  But for now, Hutch was already feeling awkward about how much he'd said, and Starsky had his limits, too.  It was time to head back to familiar ground.

"Yeah, _people_ don't usually eat peanut butter and hot sauce together," Hutch said wryly, kindly.

Starsky's eyes softened even as he shot back, "Don't know what they're missing.  Speakin' of which, you ready for some food now?"  His casual touch of Hutch's wrist lingered a moment in a fond squeeze.  So maybe Starsky was relieved, too.  Both of them were still feeling their way through this weird thing called friendship, still developing instincts for each other, but maybe they also were further along than they'd realized.  Hutch had ridden with Luke Huntley for nearly two years, too, but couldn't even begin to imagine having a conversation like this with the older man.  And Van…  Van would have thrown every admission he made, every weakness he revealed, back in his face.

Hutch shut his eyes briefly.  "Sounds good," he said, suddenly tired.

"Why don't we get you to your bed first, huh?  It'll be more comfortable."  Starsky's voice had gentled as if he knew what Hutch had been thinking.  Who knew, maybe he did.  _I ain't her –_ that was certainly true.  This partnership seemed like it would actually last.

He let himself be eased up, blocking out the spasms of protesting muscles and the deep ache in his side, paying attention only to Starsky as his partner coached him into using him as a crutch and hobbling around the couch into the bedroom, leaning heavily on Starsky as he so often seemed to.  And always would be able to, according to his partner.  Hutch was starting to believe that.

The bedroom was still a clutter of yet-unpacked boxes and several paint cans, the bed the only thing set up in the center of the room, the start of his new life there.

For the first time, he was actually looking forward to it.

"Thanks for staying," he said breathlessly as they reached the bed and Starsky lowered him carefully onto it.

"Anytime," his partner answered without hesitation, busy fussing with getting him comfortable on his side, tucking him in.  "That okay?" he finally asked, eyeing Hutch critically.

Hutch finally managed a real smile.  "It's great," he said.

And he meant it.

 


End file.
